Castle of Glass

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

Chapter One

Take Me Down to the River Bend

31st July, 1992

"Harry looked up from the letter and gulped.

"You didn't tell us you weren't allowed to use magic outside school," said Uncle Vernon, a mad gleam dancing in his eyes. "Forgot to mention it... Slipped your mind, I daresay..."

He was bearing down on Harry like a great bulldog, all his teeth bared. "Well, I've got news for you, boy. I'm locking you up! You're never going back to that school, never! And if you try and magic yourself out they'll expel you!" And laughing like a maniac he dragged Harry back upstairs.

Uncle Vernon was as bad as his word. The following morning he paid a man to fit bars on Harry's window. He himself fitted the cat-flap in the bedroom door, so that small amounts of food could be pushed inside three times a day. They let Harry out to use the bathroom morning and evening. Otherwise, he was locked in his room around the clock."*

From that day on Harry knew no fresh air, no soft grass under his bare feet and no raindrops on his sunburned skin. He wouldn't be let outside, even if he screamed, raged, hit the door, pleaded or cried. The door stood stubbornly locked in place, holding him from the rest of the world – muggle or magical didn't matter – he was trapped in a place that seemed to be a whole other dimension altogether, where he was neither seen nor heard. Invisible.

He had taken to pacing the room, round and round in circles, in order to calm himself down. He would stand at the window, letting the rays of sun create a pretence of being free as he closed his eyes, imagining. But then he would miss the wind against his face and Hedwig would let out a shrill screech, flapping her wings furiously inside of her small cage, efficiently bursting his bubble of pretence.

He felt sorry for her, being locked up like that, particularly because none of this was her fault. It had been that weird little creature, the elf, who had stepped in it. No, not only stepped in it, Harry mused, that sorry little Dobby had quite efficiently made sure the shit hit the bloody fan before making himself scarce. And to top it all, that off his rocker house-elf had stolen all of his letters, his birthday presents, successfully ruined the Dursleys' evening while he got the blame, made sure he got a nice letter from the Improper Use of Magic Office – all of that due to his loony delusion it was saving Harry's life. How messed up was that?

And now, all he could do was wait – wait for someone to miss him. To ask themselves where the famous Harry Potter was and why he wouldn't reply to their letters.

Or would they even notice? Would they believe he simply ignored them, too caught up in ordinary summer vacation fun to deign to answer to some unimportant letters? Would they stop caring for him? Would he be forgotten?

As the days ticked by and no one came for him Harry could feel himself losing his wits. He would curl up in a corner, crying heart-rendingly until the tears ran out. He would sit on his bed, talking in a soothing voice to Hedwig, hoping to relieve some of her burdens even if he couldn't help his own. He would look out of the barred window, observe the passers by; Dudley and his gang chasing after the weak, Aunt Petunia mending the garden, Uncle Vernon leaving for work, Miss Figg coming home from grocery shopping – but not once did he spot anyone special, no old man clad in bright coloured robes, no red-headed kids, no tabby cat with eyeglass-marks around its eyes, no giant man with bug-like eyes behind a black, bushy beard. He truly was discarded, left utterly alone.

After five days of constant confinement Hedwig could bear it no longer and lost it completely. The noises she made, screeching, flapping her wings and pecking at the cage, must have awoken the entire neighbourhood, Harry feared, as he heard furious hands unclasping the hinges and locks attached to the outside if his door. It was thrown open and Uncle Vernon barged inside, tearing Hedwig's cage from its spot on the writing desk. Shaking it furiously.

"It's the middle of the night you sorry creature! I've had it! I've had it with you and your noisy, worthless bird! IT'S GOING OUT! This instant!" And with that his meaty sausage fingers whipped out a small key from out of his bathrobe pocket. Taking the cage under one of his fat arms he made to unlock the padlock dangling teasingly from the cage front, barely out of his reach. Harry threw himself at his arm, trying to rip the cage out of his uncle's hold, screaming loudly in fear.

"WHAT'RE YOU DOING TO HER? LET GO!"

But he was pushed away and hit the wall painfully when his uncle let out a triumphant "AHA!" as the lock came loose and fell to the floor. His thick fingers fumbled with the cage shutter and were just about to snap it open when a loud screech from the doorway interrupted him.

"VERNON! What in heaven's name are you up to? It's three in the morning, what will the neighbours think?" Petunia sneered down at Harry, where he lay in a heap against the wall with a desperate look in his naked eyes. "Get up, boy! Don't just sit there, take that horrible animal with you outside and make it go away. Right now!"

Harry certainly didn't need to be told twice as he stood up, snagged the cage out of his uncle's loose grip and tumbled downstairs, feeling his way as not to stumble, bat blind without his glasses. As he opened the front door Uncle Vernon's harsh voice rang from upstairs:

"And you better not think about contacting any of your... those freaks with that bird, boy, or else!"

Harry sighed deeply, disappointed in himself for not preparing for the opportunity to do just that in case something like this happened. If he had only written a small note to Ron or Hagrid they could have known something was up – now, he didn't have any other choice than to let Hedwig go without being able to help him.

"Go to Hagrid, girl, he'll take care of you properly. I'll come after as soon as I can," Harry whispered softly as he opened up the shutter and watched as Hedwig flew away, a white dot disappearing into the dark blue blur.

He stood outside, enjoying the cold evening breeze sweeping through his hair, playing with the thought of just running away. To not go back upstairs and get locked behind bars. But he hadn't brought his glasses, and he was already cold to the bone, wearing nothing but his oversized pyjamas. Besides, all of his things were still locked away in the cupboard under the stairs, and he couldn't bear the thought of losing his wand, his broom or his father's Invisibility Cloak.

So, it was with a deep sigh Harry turned his back on the outside world and walked back upstairs to his own personal hell.

The days dragged by slowly after that, with no one there to keep him company. The first day after Hedwig's flight he rummaged through the shelves where Dudley's old, broken toys lay, tossed away just like Harry had been. He'd found an old Nintendo with no remotes, a cracked bicycle helmet, a plastic jar filled to the rim with Lego covered in some goo that seemed to once have been soda or ice cream. Then there were a couple of untouched books covered with dust. One was about airplanes, another about soccer. A third one was, to Harry's delight, an adventure story called Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. That book kept Harry occupied for three days, which he spent laying in his bed, engaging in the wacky story of the make-believe knight, Don, and his much saner squire Sancho Panza.

The next day he returned to his habit of looking out the window, wishing for someone to come and save him. As the day ticked by and the sun stood higher and higher on the sky Harry felt how he started to sweat and how the air became heavy, hard to breath. He started pulling at his loose collar, desperately wanting to open up the window as to not to run out of air.

That thought became obsessive-oppressive as he, again, started to pace the room, not caring for the food he got through the cat-flap at twelve and five that day. His breathing became heavily laboured and when he was finally let out at seven to do his toilet he promptly threw up into the water closet, shivering with cold sweat at his temples.

"Are you sick, boy?" Uncle Vernon asked grumpily, no doubt finding the whole situation inconvenient as he was the one that would have to explain the state his nephew was in to the authorities if Harry had to be taken to the nearby hospital. Wouldn't that be an annoyance, Harry mused as he watched his uncle under heavy eyelids, taking deep gulps of air now that he finally was let out of his hell.

"No" he mumbled quietly, swallowing before continuing, "it's just... I just want to go outside for a bit..."

Uncle Vernon looked like he had been forced to bite into a lemon. "Outside?" he asked grumpily, seemingly thinking it through before angrily biting out "No! Not in your wildest dreams, boy, I told you! No funny business or else!"

Harry felt a heavy lump build up in his throat as he thought about how close he had been to be let out, but he wouldn't give up just yet. "But, could I go downstairs then? I'll be inside, honest! And... and no funny business either! I swear! Just... don't put me back in there. Please..."

Uncle Vernon got a mean glint in his eyes as he leaned forwards, searching Harry's pleading gaze out as he started speaking in a deceivingly soothing tone. "You don't want to go back to your room, do you? Well, I suppose we could arrange something else for you. After all, the cupboard is still available..." The big man smiled mockingly as his nephew stiffened and got a sickly pale look to his complexion. "No? Then shut that trap and get your business done. You know the drill, five minutes, and if you even think about locking the door you will sorely regret it."

And with that his uncle slammed the door closed, leaving Harry to hurriedly clean himself up as best he could without breaking the time limit.

The following days became a blur in Harry's mind as he paced and paced, stared out of the window and sat by the door, clawing at it desperately. He knew the days passed by but he couldn't recollect which ones they were or how many of them there had been. He sweated a lot, changed his clothes at least twice a day and threw up his dinner every evening when he was let out to use the bathroom. His time limit got shorter and shorter until he finally gave up on trying to wash and just used the loo before silently walking back to his room. He noticed his hair was horribly greasy but couldn't find it in him to even care any longer.

His days standing at the window were finally over as he realized there would be no help for him. No one would come and he would be locked in forever. Knowing that he couldn't stand the summer sun seeping through the bars, he promptly pulled the curtains closed, being engulfed in cool darkness. He then pulled out his desk chair, placing it a few steps in front of the door before sitting down, staring at the cat-flap like a guard dog, waiting for dinner. He only moved from that spot when the small plates of food were pushed inside, when the door opened up for him at seven am or pm, or at night as he moved from his perch to lay down in bed.

He was sitting at his usual spot one of those days when the unusual face of his aunt opened up the door for him, freezing on the spot as she caught sight of him sitting there with a dead look in his eyes. He watched as her eyes trailed from his bare feet up to land on his greasy mop of hair.

"Out!" she screeched, pointing a sharp claw towards the bathroom door, sneering at the putrid smell he omitted as he walked passed her. In the bathroom her thin fingers quickly pulled off all of his clothing before seizing his upper arm and almost throwing him into the bathtub, not bothering with the shower curtains before turning the water tap on, full strength.

"Wash!" she snapped before tossing his musty clothes into the laundry basket and walking away with it under her left arm. Harry monotonously complied, pulling the curtains shut and scrubbing his skin until it shone bright pink. As he stepped out of the tub he noticed Aunt Petunia had left a clean towel on top of a fresh set of clothes for him, and marvelled at how such a simple gesture could leave such a heavy impact on him as he felt his throat constrict while thick tears started rolling down his pink cheeks. He hurriedly dried them away with the towel, pretending they were water from the shower, and got dressed.

When he walked into his room he noticed his aunt had made up the bed, taken all of his dirty laundry and the day's dishes downstairs for cleaning, no doubt. She had also, to Harry's horror, pulled apart the curtains, letting the sunset shine through into the room. He was just about to pull them closed again when a presence behind his back made him whip around, finding his aunt standing in the doorway with a demanding look in her eyes.

"Why haven't you eaten?" she asked in a slightly shaky voice, and Harry turned his gaze down to his feet, the heavy lump in his throat back full force.

"I wouldn't get to keep it..." he mumbled quietly, glancing up at his aunt who still stood looking at him with a contemplating expression.

"Why?" she demanded and Harry swallowed a sorrowful whimper before being able to answer properly.

"I don't know... I'd just throw it up."

Aunt Petunia got an unsure look in her eyes as she seemed to think hard about something. She then turned around, snapping for him to follow her, as she made her way downstairs into the kitchen. "Sit!" she demanded before throwing the fridge open, picking out a box of leftovers and heating it up in the microwave. She then served him the heated food with a big glass of milk before sitting down on the opposite side of the table, crossing her arms over her chest and demanding for him to "Eat!".

Harry did so, slowly, while watching his aunt tentatively. There was a firm line to her upper lip and she refused to look at him as he ate, he realized. Harry wondered about this sudden kindness she was sporting before noticing how eerily quiet the house around them was.

"Are we alone?" he asked in sudden weariness, looking behind himself to see if there was someone there watching him or waiting for the right moment to hit him over the head with a frying pan.

"Vernon is with Diddy, buying him a new uniform for Smeltings. They will be home soon..." Aunt Petunia rasped out, glancing at him to see if he had finished eating.

Harry put down his fork and knife to stare at her, trying to figure her out. Maybe she was feeling sorry for what they did to him? Or was she just annoyed at him for not cleaning himself up properly?

He then thought back to the fresh towel and clean clothes she had left for him and decided to take a chance at her good will, so he leaned forwards trying to catch her gaze and held it when he got it.

"Aunt Petunia, please, before they come back – let me get my stuff under the stairs. I'll leave and stay away, I promise! I won't bother you any more and you can keep on living your lives as if I never happened." He held his breath as his aunt pierced him with a conflicting look, squirming in her chair and casting fleeting glances towards the cupboard in the hallway. She then looked back at him, her eyes full or regret as she slowly shook her head, making his fluttering stomach turn to ice.

"Harry, I can't. You don't understand how hard this has been for me, keeping you up there... But it will be alright, you'll see. It'll only be a few days and then we'll take you away to your new school, and it will be alright... Don't you see? We will help you, Harry! You will get the help my sister always needed but never got."

There was a maniacal look to her eyes now and Harry felt dread crawl under his skin as he watched tears starting to fall from Aunt Petunia's blue eyelashes. "What are you talking about? What new school?" Harry asked in a fearful voice and the thin woman in front of him smiled shakily at him.

"It's a school for... special children, Harry. It's called St. Brutus' Secure Center, and they specialize on boys who need help, just like you."

But Harry wouldn't hear any of it, his ears started ringing and he arose in wild panic, making for the front door in a wild bolt, tearing at it but not getting it open. He suddenly felt sharp, surprisingly strong fingers hold him back against a frail chest and he whipped around, screaming, crying, desperate for his captor to set him free. All he could think was, "They're sending me off to the asylum!" and when he couldn't get free he just slumped together, a heavy sac of grain, all his fighting spirit gone.

Harry was left with no energy, spending the last of his days at the Dursleys in bed, staring aimlessly up at the ceiling. He knew that at any time, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia could barge in, ripping him off of his bed and stow him into the back seat of the car to make a long drive into the depth of London. "A few days" she'd said, but that could mean anything, and he didn't even know what day it was to begin with, so counting the days was nothing less than useless.

The sun stood high on the sky, shining through the bars teasingly, the day the door flew open. What happened next was so unexpected Harry couldn't stop his jaw from falling straight into his lap, laying discarded as he stared at the imposter in disbelief.

Severus Snape.

In his doorway, wand raised high and characteristic sneer in place, stood his hated Potions professor from Hogwarts.

He had lain for night after sleepless night, praying that a saviour would come for him, only to find that the one to answer his prayer was the greasy dungeon bat, someone who hated him with a vengeance.

Harry couldn't help it – he laughed. Hard. He could feel tears streaming down his cheeks as the chuckles turned into hiccups. He sprinted from the bed and threw himself at his dark clad professor, holding onto him desperately, burying his face close to his saviour's heart.

He could tell his professor was taken aback, not sure how to react, and forced himself to calm down and take a step back so as not to make the other uncomfortable.

"Sorry" he mumbled, looking down at his feet, still with a desperate itch to hold onto the black robes in front of him and never let go. He glanced up carefully, noticing Snape was looking around hesitantly, taking the entirety of Harry's hell in, before snapping his gaze guardedly onto the boy in front of him.

"Why are there locks on your door, Potter... and bars on your window?"

Harry was startled to realize he had actually missed the drawling voice of his professor, and was pleasantly surprised there had been no insults to the short demand Snape had uttered.

"There was a house-elf, you see... And when I didn't agree to quit Hogwarts he dropped a cake onto the head of Uncle Vernon's important guest and they decided to lock me in here since they found out I couldn't magic myself out and then they decided to send me-to-an-asylum-and-I-thought-I'd-never-see-anyone -again-and-"

Snape held up a hand, halting his furiously fast tirade of words stumbling upon each other in his haste explain. The man seemed to take it all in, staring at him with a deeply frowning forehead.

"If they knew you couldn't use magic outside of school... explain why they decided to put bars on your window and seven locks on your door!"

Harry took a deep breath and gathered all of his last willpower not to break down in tears in front of his professor, again. "They're scared... of magic that is... I reckon they didn't want to take any chances."

Snape was watching him intently, disbelief written clearly on his face. "How long have they kept you here?"

Harry shrugged helplessly, gaining an angrily snarled "Potter!" for his lack of response, and sighed heavily. "I don't know, alright! Dobby came here on my birthday and they locked me in then... I don't know how many days it's been."

Snape's eyebrows had risen so high on his forehead they had disappeared behind the curtains of hair framing his face, and he seemed speechless. Finally, he croaked out "29 days" and Harry just couldn't believe it. The Dursleys had locked him in for the better part of a month?

"It's currently the 28th of August... They've kept you here for 29 days? Impossible!"

"Apparently not..." Harry muttered tonelessly before realizing- "Hey! How come you know when my birthday is?"

He got an expressionless nothing in response before his professor pierced him with a demanding look, declaring: "Pack your things, we're leaving".

Harry let out a small huff of air in annoyance before admitting "I can't". Snape lifted his eyebrows expectantly and Harry continued "All of my things are in the cupboard under the stairs... except for my clothes and Hedwig's cage".

Snape stared at him for a couple of heartbeats before whipping around, walking down the stairs, calling for him to "bring your things". Harry hurriedly gathered his few, threadbare garments, picked up the owl cage and, last minute, decided to also bring Don Quixote with him to wherever they were going. When he got downstairs he found his trunk and broomstick by the front door while Snape stood frozen still in front of the open cupboard, staring in disbelief at something, while Aunt Petunia stood in the kitchen doorway, watching the wizard with overly obvious contempt.

"Why is there a bed in the cupboard, Potter?"

"Behold, my previous bedroom," Harry introduced tiredly as Snape's furious eyes pierced his aunt with a calculating gleam in them.

"Is that so?" he muttered, his eyes promising certain death to Aunt Petunia, before he turned slowly and made for the door. "Are you planning on carrying that in your arms, Potter?" he snapped and Harry immediately sprang into action, opening up the trunk and stowing everything in his arms away, except for the cage of course.

"Can we leave now? ...sir?" he hastened to finish when he caught Snape's still furious gaze. The man simply nodded at him, taking hold of the trunk and pulling it out of Privet Drive 4. And Harry followed, leaving the dreaded house behind, never to return.

Harry made a firm decision to take a stand and decide he did not like this apparition thing the sorcerers had going on. It literally felt like being pushed through a tight rubber tube, and he could clearly say he'd had quite enough experience of tight spaces to last him a lifetime.

He swayed a bit on the spot, regaining his balance, before trudging after Snape along the narrow industrial street they were walking on. Passing a worn-down grey brick house and turning left Harry read "Spinner's End 14" on the road sign attached to its façade. He followed his professor three houses down until they stood in front of the equally worn-down number 8. In the distance he could see the chimneys of some old industrial building, but it must be deserted, Harry mused, since there was no smoke coming out of it.

Looking around he found that most houses in this neighbourhood seemed to be empty and there were no people around as far as Harry could see. He pondered on why Snape had taken him to this ghost town as the front door of number 8 clicked open and he found himself in a gloomy, but comfortable, living room. The walls were lined with bookshelves and in front of a generous fireplace stood a plush Chesterfield sofa.

Snape put Harry's trunk by the foot of it and turned around to face his young student. "Potter, close the door. You will sleep on the sofa, the kitchen is the door to your left, the bathroom to the right next to the staircase. Upstairs are my sleeping quarters and you have no business what so ever leaving the ground floor – is that clear?"

Harry felt himself go stiff. So this was Snape's home? And he was let in, just like that? No death threats or fear inspiring promises?

He hastened to nod and exclaim "Yes, sir!" as he saw annoyance build up in Snape's pale complexion, and got a curt nod in return before his professor disappeared into the kitchen.

"I am making lunch. You, Potter, are taking a shower. Immediately!"

Harry certainly didn't need to be told twice. Glad to have his Hogwarts belongings back he pulled out a fluffy, red and gold towel from his trunk, followed by a clean set of clothes and his toilet bag, which had been sorely missed.

The bathroom was small, but clean, Harry judged and wasted no time in cleaning himself up as he had discarded everything called hygiene ever since Aunt Petunia dropped the bomb. As he looked inside the mirror after his shower he was startled by the sheer difference in his appearance from the last time he had bothered to look at himself. Which was, probably, the day before his twelfth birthday. After that he'd avoided his own reflection like the plague so as to not be forced to see the deep misery – feeling it had been quite enough. But now he was amazed by how thin he was. He'd always been thin, of course, but now he was bony. Probably even bonier than Aunt Petunia, which was quite a feat! And he'd grown, several inches! The sunburn he'd acquired from being outside in the beginning of the summer had faded completely and he was left with a sickly pale complexion, sporting quite impressive dark circles under his eyes. It almost looked like he'd been in a street fight! The tatty old clothes he was wearing looked even bigger on him now, although the jeans were finally the right length, he noticed with a half-amused snort at the irony.

Stepping out of the bathroom he caught a whiff of whatever Snape was cooking and his stomach rumbled in excitement at the delicious smell. He tentatively sneaked closer to the kitchen, not really knowing what to do with himself or what his sour professor was expecting of him. The old house decided to have mercy on him and made up his mind for him as he stepped on an especially old floorboard and it creaked loudly, alerting Snape of his presence.

"Potter," he snapped, making Harry halt in his tracks fearfully. "Stop lurking about and come here."

The weary teen let out a deep sigh and slipped into the small, rectangular room where the dark haired man, now clad in black slacks and a white button-up shirt with rolled up sleeves, wearing his hair in a loose bun at the back of his head – an odd sight to behold Harry thought – stood cutting up slices of bread before putting them into a small basket.

Harry could feel himself losing control of his chin for the second time that day and promptly snapped it closed as Snape turned around and ordered him to "Sit!". He wearily complied as his professor put a delicious smelling bowl of soup in front of him and sat down on the other side of the table, a bowl of his own waiting for him.

"Eat!" he ordered and looked at the boy in front of him as he took a spoon-full of soup and sipped it carefully.

"It's good... Delicious, really..." Harry mumbled into his bowl and Snape hummed in acceptance of the praise before holding out a can in front of the boy, pouring white liquid into his glass.

It was milk.

Harry lost it.

The insecurity of not knowing what to do, the weirdness of his hated professor suddenly being nice, the long depression, the meal's similarities to the last one he'd shared with his aunt. It was too much and there was no way for him to hold back the tears any longer. Not even the strong feelings of shame for bothering Snape could make the dry sobs die out.

To his utter astonishment, there suddenly was a presence kneeling down to his left and then he was engulfed in the warmth of an embrace. Forgetting his embarrassment, when a big hand came down on his back to rub soothing circles, he let it all go and threw his arms around his professor, burying his face into the crook of Snape's neck as he wept and wept.

It felt nice, he decided, being held like this. He'd never had that before, no one had ever bothered to comfort him about anything. He'd had hugs before, from Ron and Hermione, but neither of them had ever held onto him, letting him breathe and heal like this. It felt like something a parent would do...

He felt all his bottled up emotions leave him, the tight knot in his stomach loosen up, and the tears finally disappear as he let out a shaky breath and leaned out of the hold Snape had on him.

The onslaught of emotions and his letting it all out on his professor left him speechless, utterly unfamiliar with the situation he'd landed himself in. Snape didn't seem to react at all, though, and simply returned to his chair and started buttering a slice of bread. Harry followed his example and ate slowly, savouring every sip of soup, every piece of bread, every gulp of milk. When he'd finally finished he was left with an unusual fullness to his stomach, making him feel fuzzy and desperately tired.

"Thank you," he whispered and got a curt nod in return before the man arose and started waving his wand about, making the bowls, silverware, glasses and the can fly off of the table and into the sink where the dish brush wasted no time in scrubbing it all clean. The man let the gadgets do all the work and sat down again, looking contemplatively on the child on the other side of the table, and seemed to come to some sort of decision before throwing out a question to him.

"Do you suffer from any injuries or illnesses?"

"No," Harry said and got a look of clear mistrust, making him swallow nervously and admit, "when I was... there, I couldn't eat. I mean, I could eat but, I wouldn't get to keep it... But, I guess now I'm fine! I don't feel sick or anything".

"What about your knees?" Snape prompted and Harry stared at him wide eyed, taken by surprise.

"What about them?" he asked making his professor narrow his eyes at him.

"You have patches of blood on your jeans around the area where your knees should be, Potter. Don't. Lie. To. Me."

Harry looked down onto himself to call his professor's bluff and was flabbergasted to notice he wasn't being made fun of at all. Snape was right, there was something wrong with his knees! "I... I guess I must have tripped or... something..." he muttered, not meeting the eyes of his professor, who knelt down next to him, again, and pulled up the legs of his jeans to look at the damage.

"These are scratch marks, Potter," he grit out, whipping his wand over the wounds, making Harry's knees tickle slightly while the skin grew back together.

As the man made his hasty wand movements the rolled up sleeve on his left arm slowly glided back, showing off the base of a weird looking tattoo, portraying a snake crawling out of a staring scull. Harry pondered on it for a few seconds before he realized the man it belonged to had asked him another question. "What?"

"I said, Potter, why do you have scratch marks on your legs?" Snape bit out impatiently and Harry really didn't know what to say.

"I don't know! I guess I must have scratched them in my sleep or something..."

"Must have scratched them in your sleep? Or something?" Snape was glaring at him now and Harry could feel the knot in his stomach staring to rebuild. He wanted the kind, hugging Snape back...

"Tell me, Potter, what were you doing the last couple of days before I found you?"

Harry had to think, hard. He actually didn't know what he'd been doing after the day of Aunt Petunia's revelation. He knew he'd been staying in bed, not moving, not eating... He remembered someone force feeding him some sort of pasty broth from time to time, pulling him into the bathroom, yelling at him...

"I was... it felt like sleeping... but I don't remember much," he finally decided and looked up into the black eyes of his professor. "I don't know if I was scratching my knees or not, but I reckon I must have! Without realizing..."

Snape was still kneeling at his side, his eyes full of ghosts of the past, one hand still clutching Harry's right kneecap. "What they did to you..." he began, averting his eyes before continuing in a soft voice. "I can't imagine... It must have been awful for you. I..." he looked like he was about to swallow something horrid and Harry found himself feeling sorry for him, for some reason.

"I owe you an apology, Potter," Snape admitted and Harry, again, lost all control of his slack jaw. "I should not have judged you beforehand, not knowing all the facts. And I was... wrong. You are nothing like your father."

"Was that supposed to be a compliment, professor?" Harry breathed out in disbelieving amusement.

"Mark my words, Potter, that's the best you are ever going to get from me," Snape said with a smirk and Harry let out a startled giggle, watching as the other arose and made for the living room, obviously counting on him to follow.

Flooing was even worse than apparating, Harry concluded, as he bumped his shoulder roughly against another chimney bend. The soot was everywhere, even inside of his mouth, and he silently made a pact with himself to avoid magical transportation as far as possible and simply use his good old broomstick henceforth. Then he made impact with the ground and tumbled out of a fireplace opening, landing on the dusty wooden floor of the Leaky Cauldron. As he arose and started brushing himself off he heard the eerily familiar sound of mocking laughter from behind him.

"As graceful as ever I see, Potter!"

Harry whipped around and caught sight of a certain blonde boy who never failed to make his blood boil in anger. "Piss off, Malfoy!" he hissed at the other who smirked nastily as he caught sight of Harry's face.

"Who blacked your eyes, Potter, I want to send them flowers!"

Before Harry could retort with a nasty comment of his own they were interrupted by a tall, dark clad man carrying a silver cane adorned with a snake's head at the top. The man put a hand on Draco's shoulder and Harry could clearly see the relation.

"Now, now, Draco, where are your manners? I beg your forgiveness for my son's bumbling behaviour, Mr Potter," the man said with a shark-like smile, stretching his hand out to grasp Harry's in a firm handshake. "Lucius Malfoy, a pleasure to finally meet you. Draco has told me so much about you, Mr Potter." His gaze swept up to Harry's forehead, quite obviously staring at his lightning bolt shaped scar with a manic gleam to his grey eyes.

"I've heard of you too, Mr Malfoy, or rather... Draco has mentioned you quite a lot!" Harry said with a sweet smile his sour looking school rival's way. "Often using you as a threat, actually."

Mr Malfoy was just about to retort with a falsely sweet comment of his own when Snape suddenly stepped out of the fireplace behind them, silently taking the scene in.

"Ah, Severus, what a pleasant surprise," Mr Malfoy said, his eyebrows raised high. "I take it you are the one responsible for Mr Potter's... safety?" There seemed to be some silent messaging going on between the two adults, and it didn't seem Snape liked whatever Mr Malfoy was trying to tell him.

"Correct," Snape said, putting a warning hand onto Harry's left shoulder, starting to lead him towards the back door, where they would find the brick wall hiding the passage to Diagon Alley. "And we are on a tight schedule, I'm afraid."

"That is such a pity," Mr Malfoy hurried to say, searching for something to hold them back with. "Wouldn't it be a pleasure to, perhaps, have lunch? For old time's sake? At a private setting?"

Snape turned back around, a dark look in his eyes that seemed to carry some sort of warning to the blonde man holding them back. Catching the potions master's gaze Mr Malfoy started sneering in barely hidden anger, clenching his hand around the snake head until the knuckles turned white.

"I'm afraid we have already eaten, Lucius," Snape said and Mr Malfoy got a fierce gleam in his eyes as he hurried forwards, grabbing hold of Harry's shoulders while exclaiming, "What a pity! A pleasure, Potter," before kissing both of his cheeks and brushing past, calling for Draco to follow him.

As the blondes disappeared into a raging green flame and Snape led him through the brick wall passage, Harry couldn't help but feel tension, paranoia, as if he'd barely managed to escape certain death. Looking up at his professor, he saw the dark look was still firmly in place.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked wearily, and Snape let out a soft hiss of annoyance.

"That was you barely escaping death, again, Potter!" he said and Harry sighed sadly, muttering "thought so" to himself, thinking back to the rich, shark-like wizard and wondering why everybody seemed to be after his blood.

"What did he mean with 'for old time's sake'?"

He only got an annoyed glare in response.

Their shopping trip was swiftly taken care of as Harry already had most of his supplies from last year left and undamaged. However, he was in need of new robes thanks to his growth spurt, and there was a long list of books to take care of. It was not only long, it was mighty odd as well – consisting of no less than seven books of the same author: Gilderoy Lockhart, and one The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 2) by Miranda Goshawk. Judging by Snape's reaction to the Lockhart books he suspected this year of Hogwarts to be... weird.

Upon arriving back at Spinner's End 8 Harry nearly had a heart attack as he tumbled out of the fireplace and found himself facing a crooked old lady wrapped up tightly in a worn knitted plaid. The woman seemed just as startled as he was, peering at him with dark hazy eyes from behind a crooked nose and loosely braided white hair.

"Ah, I see you have met my mother," Snape said as he stepped out of the fireplace behind him. "Mother, this is Harry Potter, and he will be staying with us for a total of three days before it is time for him to return to Hogwarts."

Snape's mother seemed to become alive with an inner shine as she heard his name, and she hastened to limp forwards, grasping his hand in a weak grip, smiling at him with yellow uneven teeth. "Eileen Snape, Mr Potter, it is such a pleasure to get to meet you. May I call you Harry, dear?" she said and this time, as opposed to when Mr Malfoy had shaken his hand, the greeting was genuine.

"You shouldn't be walking around so carelessly, mother, especially not when alone. You know this! How did you even get down the stairs?" Snape reprimanded kindly and led the old woman to sit down in the Chesterfield.

"Yes, yes, never mind that," Eileen snapped impatiently, looking up adoringly at her son. "But where were you? I thought I smelled soup!" Harry couldn't help but smile at the adoring picture the Snape pair made and faintly recalled what the mirror of Erised had shown him. He deeply wished he could have something like that of his own.

"Yes, I saved some for you..." Snape said and the old woman in front of him let out a pleased little "oh!" and smiled brilliantly. "And I have been in Diagon Alley, helping Potter with his school supplies."

"That old goat ordering you around again, Sev dear?" Eileen sighed unsatisfied and Harry's smile widened at the cute nickname she used for her son, as opposed to aunt Petunia insisting on referring to her son as Diddy, or worse: Dinky Duddydums.

"Yes, he sent me an owl this morning, demanding my... services."

"And he told you to let Harry stay here as well?" Eileen demanded with a sharp, intelligent look in her eyes.

"Not... exactly. But he won't object, I'm sure... Now, let me get that soup for you. Don't. Move."

Eileen smiled brightly and turned towards Harry who was still standing by the fireplace, not knowing what to do with himself. She patted the sofa seat next to her and winked mischievously at him. "Give an old hag some company, won't you, Harry?"

A/N: Thank you for reading! I can't believe I've finally written something, and finished it! Wish me luck on the next chapter.

Mischief managed!

*Rowling, J.K., Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Bloomsbury, London, 1998